<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>e l'amore guiderà le stelle (and love will steer the stars) by lavhonlim, unlawfulavocados</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094255">e l'amore guiderà le stelle (and love will steer the stars)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavhonlim/pseuds/lavhonlim'>lavhonlim</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unlawfulavocados/pseuds/unlawfulavocados'>unlawfulavocados</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Trust (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Minor Blood/Injury, immortal au?, it's time to acknowledge this ship, listen I know you're all horny for primo and like me too but, they can't die because they deserve happiness ok</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 03:35:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavhonlim/pseuds/lavhonlim, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unlawfulavocados/pseuds/unlawfulavocados</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I watched you die." The words are shuddered more than spoken. It's not funny, but Angelo wants to laugh, a little. What a magical, terrible thing to share.</p><p>"Do you think we've both gone crazy?"</p><p>Paul considers this, then flashes Angelo a bright smile. It's still tainted at the edges with hurt and something Angelo can't name, but it's there. "Nah." He chucks Angelo under the chin, holds his gaze until he, too, is smiling. "You're too good. I couldn't even dream you up if I tried."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Paul/Angelo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>e l'amore guiderà le stelle (and love will steer the stars)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay listen. Listen. Luca is really hot. I get it, that's why I watched the show too. And am I absolutely living for this Primo/Leo content? Somehow yes. I didn't expect it, but I'm fully on board now so here we are.</p><p>But Paul and Angelo is right there, people! The angst! The teenage puppy love! The Italian gay yearning! The class difference! The secret language! It's all there. So I humbly propose that we add this (admittedly, non-Luca-including) ship to our collective tiny trash heap of a fandom. </p><p>Also thanks to my very lovely friend for suggesting this au, in which Angelo and Paul are old guard-style immortal. Ily, goldén heepeé!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn't even have to kill anyone, as it turns out– at least not at first. They've left Paul unattended, not even chained, in a cave in the mountains. Angelo doesn't know if it's because they're getting careless, or because they think Paul has nowhere to run. It doesn't matter, really. He's going to get Paul out, and they're going to fly to New York and leave this entire life behind them. He's going to get Paul out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The hike to the cave is nothing like their frantic first escape. It's still dirty, and rough, still leaves him winded by the time he reaches the jagged opening in the rock face. But there's a different weight to it, a fear that runs deeper than anxiety. This time, he knows the cost.</p><p>He didn't think to bring a flashlight, but in the dim light he can just make out a hunched figure. The man– boy– looks up at his approach, and Angelo notes with a twinge in his chest the greasy hair and sunken eyes. It's Paul, so unlike the bright American dream he remembers. But definitely still Paul.</p><p>He kneels before him, not quite reaching out, hands hovering in the space between them. "We’ve got to go. Can you stand?"</p><p>"Angelo?" Paul is gazing at him like he's a specter, and, well. Maybe that's fair. Angelo doesn't really know what he is, but a ghost might not be so inaccurate.</p><p>"There's no time, Paul, come on–"</p><p>"...Angelo." It's an exhale more than anything, no tears, no dramatics. Just Paul, pressing his palms to Angelo's cheeks. There's a little tremor in his fingertips, dragging down along the sweat and dirt and Angelo remembers with sudden clarity that they need to move, <em> now </em>.</p><p>"Come on, golden boy, get up," he says, trying to keep his voice even. Paul huffs a laugh and pushes himself up on shaky legs. He looks so delicate, like paper, and Angelo's heart crumples.</p><p>By some miracle, Paul doesn't question how this can be. He doesn't ask Angelo to explain himself, doesn't mention the blood that pooled between his bare toes and left sticky red prints across the kitchen floor. He just clings to him, and they hobble their way into the daylight like that, with Paul's arm slung over his shoulder and Angelo supporting most of his weight.</p><p>They're moving at a good pace, the pebbles under foot giving way to sand colored dirt and then a deep soil. Paul stays quiet for so long that it's disconcerting. It's unlike him not to crack a joke, not to ask for hows and whys and wheres. The question that's forming on the tip of Angelo's tongue– <em> what happened to you? did they hurt you? </em>– is answered when he reaches up to help Paul down from a high slope. His head ducks to the side as he reaches even ground, revealing a bloody stretch of gauze. </p><p><em> Oh</em>. </p><p>They need to keep moving, but Angelo can't help himself. He raises the hand not entwined with Paul's, traces the edge of the bandage where it meets his jaw.</p><p>"You're hurt," he says, and feels immediately stupid. There's blood caked into the wispy blond curls above his ear, and his eyes are lighter, more hollow, than ever before. The trees around them are sparse and will only provide a moment's cover, but Angelo allows himself a breath of grief for the pain Paul has endured. The pain he has caused.</p><p>Paul doesn't meet his gaze at first, only looks up when Angelo squeezes his fingers and brushes a thumb over a patch of dried blood along his cheekbone. "No." He gives something like a smile, a little quirk of his lips. "No, Angelo, it isn't, I can't–"</p><p>And there, with Paul stumbling for an explanation and leaning into the hand at his cheek, Angelo forgets to listen for the crunch of pine needles. He forgets even to listen for the cocking of a gun.</p><p>Time starts skipping, blinking through moments, and later Angelo will be unable to recall the exact order of things. There's a shot, jarring and sudden. Birds jump from the treetops and soar away in one great, panicked flock. And Paul is looking down, pressing a hand to his gut and watching as red wells between his fingers and then he's laughing, the bastard, <em> laughing </em> as he collapses down to the earth.</p><p>He's trying to speak, but his words are getting tangled between little gasps and gurgles. That's alright. Angelo has seen this before, knows what's coming next. There's a man at the tree-line, gun raised, poised to kill. Time is still doing that odd skipping motion, and Paul's lips are moving soundlessly now– Christ, is he praying?– and all of that is lost to the rushing in Angelo's ears. He thinks of his nonna, strangely, and what she would make of all this. What would she say, if she could see how he pulls a pistol from his waistband and fires straight into a stranger's chest? </p><p>The man falls backward and goes still. Angelo doesn't lower his gun right away, fingers shaking over the trigger. He keeps it raised until time rushes back into him, a breath of fresh air. It's all clear, too clear, like jolting awake after a terrible dream. He drops the gun, sure it's branded him in some invisible way, and turns back to Paul.</p><p>He's lying on his side, but goes easily when Angelo falls to his knees beside him and tips him onto his back. The blood won't stop, seeping through Paul's shirt and coating his hands. Angelo covers them with his own, presses them into the wound.</p><p>"-ngel-oh," Paul breathes, unsteady and hissing through the vowels. "It's– kay–"</p><p>"Don't speak," Angelo cuts him off. He shakes his head. "It's, Paul, it's bad and we need to keep moving. <em> Minchia</em>, I don't know…"</p><p>He trails off. Paul is not listening. His gaze is tilted up toward the birds that are just beginning to resettle on the branches above them. Angelo realizes suddenly, ridiculously, that Paul is dying.</p><p>"Paul, look at me, please.” Those clear blue eyes flicker back down to him, and somehow it's worse. He can see the light leaving them. "Stay awake, Paul. It's okay, just stay here."</p><p>The blood pooling between their hands is slippery. </p><p>"Paul? Dio santo, minchia, <em> please</em>, Paul–"</p><p>The rise and fall of Paul’s chest slows, stops. His hands slide out from beneath Angelo's and his head rolls to the side. Angelo's vaguely aware of how his breath has picked up, how he's spilling pleas between choked sobs.</p><p>"My golden boy, per favore non andare, <em> porco cane non andare </em>..."</p><p> </p><p>It's different from before. Time doesn't skip, it stops altogether.</p><p> </p><p>Angelo drifts. He can feel the tears streaking down his cheeks, but there's a strange buzzing in his body, as though he might float away at any moment. He should've known– no, he <em> did </em> know. They needed to keep running. He <em> knew </em>they shouldn't have stopped. Rage bubbles low in his gut, a fury so deep he hardly recognizes himself. If he hadn't been so selfish, so stupid, Paul would be… he'd still be…</p><p>The thought is cut short by a gasp, and for a split second, Angelo squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't dare hope.</p><p>But then there's a cough, another gasp, this time forming the shape of his name, and Angelo looks down to see the most beautiful sight God has ever granted him.</p><p>"Hello." Says Paul, meek. Angelo laughs, breathes in a ragged breath– a sob?– and then laughs again, because he's here with those eyes full of life and light. He lifts the hem of Paul's shirt, just to be sure. It's clear where the bullet entered, a mass of cooling blood covering the right side of his stomach. But a gentle brush of Angelo's fingers reveals no wound, not even the raised flesh of a scar. It's a miracle he doesn't deserve, and he receives it all the same.</p><p>"Hello," Angelo parrots. He reaches up with a trembling, bloody hand to stroke the tender skin just beneath Paul's eye. "Dio, <em> mi hai spaventato</em>." The words are falling almost unbidden. He leans down, lays his forehead against Paul's and closes his eyes. For a moment, he just soaks in the brush of Paul's exhale on his cheek.</p><p>"I know." Paul angles up enough to press a kiss to the corner of Angelo's mouth. It's too lovely– Angelo is somewhat sure that this is a mistake, that he's actually in heaven. But Paul grunts with the effort of pushing himself up onto his elbows, and there's still blood soaked into his shirt, and it's enough to draw Angelo back to reality. "I'm sorry, I wanted to explain, but…"</p><p>Angelo nods. Of course, he understands. "You thought you'd sound crazy."</p><p>"I watched you die." The words are shuddered more than spoken. It's not funny, but Angelo wants to laugh, a little. What a magical, terrible thing to share.</p><p>"Do you think we've both gone crazy?"</p><p>Paul considers this, then flashes Angelo a bright smile. It's still tainted at the edges with hurt and something Angelo can't name, but it's there. "Nah." He chucks Angelo under the chin, holds his gaze until he, too, is smiling. "You're too good. I couldn't even dream you up if I tried."</p><p>The swelling Angelo feels in his chest is broken somewhat by a glance to the body still lying near the tree-line. Sentimentality is what got them here in the first place. He almost lurches in his haste to get to his feet, to drag Paul up with him. They can do this later, when they're home in some American apartment with soft sheets and good wine. But there's no time now. Not until they're safe.</p><p>Paul seems to read the frantic jitter of Angelo's hands. He captures them in his own, holds them still between their chests just as Angelo moves to pull away. He does this– puts emotion above reality, insists on outlandish possibilities, and it's the quality Angelo likes least about him.</p><p>"Hey," Paul murmurs, low and calm.</p><p>"<em>Via,</em> we've got to go–"</p><p>"Hey," he says again. Angelo tugs at his hands, but Paul's grip remains firm. "I'm here now. We're okay. We're gonna be okay."</p><p>In the silence, Angelo can feel how his own breath has been coming in shorter and shorter bursts. He takes a deep inhale, intentional, and exhales slowly.</p><p>"Good." Paul squeezes his wrists in encouragement. "We're gonna be okay. Say it back to me."</p><p>There's still that jumpy feeling just beneath Angelo's skin, and he fights not to flinch at every snap of a broken twig. But there's something steady in Paul's gaze that keeps him grounded. Paul is a dreamer, true, but he doesn't just dream for himself. He refuses to accept bad odds for anyone, and it's Angelo's favorite thing about him.</p><p>He pushes out another slow breath, and nods. "We're gonna be okay."</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>